Get A Clue
by phantomphan2000
Summary: When Sam and Dean are thrown into a modern version of Clue, they suspect the Trickster is to blame. To escape, they must find the murderer and expose them for who they really are. But can the brothers solve the mystery before times runs out? set early S5
1. You're Invited

**A/N: Idea I got after playing that famous board game. Something of a cross between 5x08 and 3x11. Set in the beginning of S5. Based on the Discover the Secrets edition of Clue.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own SPN or Clue.**

**Chapter 1: You're Invited**

"Man, are you still on that thing? It's been hours."

The sound of his brother's voice drifting from the doorway brings Sam back to reality. He stifles a yawn, briefly acknowledging his eyes are burning from staring at the laptop screen for too long. Blinking several times, he shifts his gaze to Dean. "Yeah," Sam mumbles. "Research."

As Dean closes the door, Sam catches a whiff of bacon. "So? Did you find anything?" the older brother prompts, setting the bag of food on a nearby table.

"Well, tons, actually," Sam reports. "Some people believe the crop circles are connected to their dreams. Ancient and sacred birds like the Phoenix and the Storm Bird Zu are illustrated in grass and wheat fields. More than once." He gestures to the page he'd pulled up. "Here it says, 'But immediately after the tribulation of those days the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.'"

Dean's eyebrows knit together as he tries to understand. He takes a huge bite of a bacon and cheese burger, and asks around the mouthful, "What the hell does that mean?"

Sam holds up a finger. "But that's not all. In 2010, an '11:11' crop circle formation appeared in Wiltshire, England. People made connections to Biblical texts, like Revelation 11:11, and even the Mayan calendar. Some think the world will now end on December 21, 2012, at 11:11 A.M. Universal Time."

Dean takes a seat at the table. "Then . . . are we talking E.T. bringing about the Apocalypse here, or what?"

"Honestly? I don't know. The only thing I do know is that whoever or whatever is making the crop circles has to be doing it from the sky. I mean, it's not like you can see the designs from the ground. There'd be no way to tell—"

"So basically what you're saying is we came all the way to Illinois for nothing," Dean supplies.

Sam releases a defeated sort of sigh and shrugs. "I guess. Besides this circle stuff, there's nothing weird going on. Normal death rates and amount of missing persons. . . . I was just so sure there was a case here." Disappointed, he joins his brother at the table and retrieves a salad from the bag, popping open the plastic lid and digging right in.

Dean, however, had remained skeptical from the start. It isn't surprising to him in the slightest. But he finds Sam's disappointment comical. _Nerds and their research . . . peas in a pod_, he muses. "Hey, no sweat. I'll give Bobby a call in the morning and see if he's got any new leads."

Sam nods. It's then that he notices it's three in the morning.

* * *

><p>Dean lies awake for a while, hearing Sam toss and turn for the good portion of an hour in the bed next to him before the snoring starts. And just as Dean himself starts to drift off, his cell phone vibrates on the bedside table. He snatches it and answers it hurriedly, so as not to wake his younger sibling.<p>

"Hello?" he rasps gruffly, heading for the bathroom.

"Dean," comes the deep reply.

"Cas?" he asks, flipping on the light and closing the door behind him. "What the hell, man? It's like five. What do you want?"

The angel ignores the question. "Where are you now?"

"At a motel in Illinois. Why?"

"I have reason to believe your brother is in danger."

Dean Winchester rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, thanks for your concern, Cas, but since when hasn't he been? Look, I'm beat, and I need some sleep. From what I can tell, he's been clean for a while now. The temptation is just . . . gone, okay? He's fine."

"I wasn't referring to your brother's demon blood addiction. I meant Lucifer has plans for Sam."

"I know, I know. I get it, all right? The Devil wants to wear him to the prom, but it's not like Sam will say yes. I won't give Michael the say-so either, you know that, we all do. So what's with you being a worry wart now?"

"Just be careful, Dean," Castiel advises, a note of concern detectable in his tone. "The demons are constantly on the move. Don't let Sam out of your sight."

And the angel hangs up, just like that. "Yeah, nice talking to you, too, feather brain," Dean mutters, clearly annoyed. He snaps the phone shut and heads back to bed.

* * *

><p>Despite only getting a couple hours' sleep, Dean feels rested when he wakes. Sam's still snoring obnoxiously loud, drool spilling out of his gaping mouth, and, as an older brother, Dean feels obligated to take a picture. He laughs to himself as he puts on his shoes. "That's a keeper."<p>

Asia blasts from the alarm clock at 7:30, at which point Sam jerks awake.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean says jovially.

"Dude, _Asia_?" Sam asks in a tone that says, _Are-you-kidding-me_?

"Come on, you love this song and you know it."

"Yeah," Sam agrees sarcastically, "and if I ever have to hear it again, I'm gonna kill myself."

Dean reaches over to crank up the volume. "What? I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

Sam smiles and shakes his head as he watches his brother mouth the words and bob his head to the beat of _Heat of the Moment_.

After watching Dean gargle for over a minute in the bathroom, Sam returns to his bedside to get dressed. As he's pulling on a pair of jeans and tightening his belt, he notices two vanilla-colored envelopes lying on the floor near the door, as if someone had slipped them under during the night. Curious, he picks one up. It's addressed to a Mr. Victor Plum. Tearing open the mail, he pulls out a slip of paper. It's an invitation to some sort of party.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam calls.

"What?" Dean appears immediately beside Sam, drawn by the tone of voice his brother uses when's he's found something during a hunt. "What is it?"

"An . . . invitation, I think."

Confused, Dean picks up the second envelope from the floor. Scrawled in neat handwriting is the name Mr. Jack Mustard. "To what?" he asks, curious. Since when did they get invited to anything? And who had last names like Plum and Mustard?

"A party."

Dean opens Jack's envelope and finds himself holding a perfect duplicate of the invitation Sam is holding. It reads:

_Invitation_

We're simply dying for you to join our party.

**Who? **The usual suspects

**Where? **A luxury mansion

**When? **BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE

"The hell . . . ?" Dean mumbles under his breath.

"Maybe they got the wrong room," Sam suggests, shrugging. "Happens all the time, right? Let's just return 'em to the front desk. Then we call Bobby."

Sam opens the door . . .

. . . and finds a butler awaiting his arrival. "Good evening, Mr. Plum," the man says, nodding to Sam. He turns to Dean. "Mr. Mustard. May I see your invitations, please?"

The brothers glance around, dazed by their new surroundings. Day had become night, and in place of the motel room was a long driveway leading up to the mansion they were now standing in front of. Once it reached the house, it encompassed a water fountain, which is spewing a steady stream of water from the top and sides. It looks to be made of marble by the light of the full moon. Two large oak doors allow entrance into the mansion, butlers standing on either side.

Sam notices he is wearing glasses, and adjusts them awkwardly. Strange, he's never worn glasses before. Looking down, he realizes he's made an outfit change. A purple suit and matching pants have replaced the t-shirt and jeans.

Dean also acknowledges his clothes have changed, except everything he's wearing now happens to be bright yellow . . . even his shoes. Sunshine yellow.

Aware that he probably looks like the sun, Dean clears his throat. "Yes," he says, handing over Jack Mustard's invitation. He shoots a look at Sam, urging him to follow suit.

"Of course," he replies pleasantly, offering Plum's invitation.

The butler quickly studies the names on the envelopes. "Very well, right this way, gentlemen." He gestures towards the mansion.

The brothers climb the last few stone steps a little uncertainly and enter, eyes darting to every inch of the hall. Other guests had already arrived before them, but Sam only counts four. Three women, one man.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto," Dean whispers slyly out of the corner of his mouth, trying to keep a smile plastered on his face.

_No kidding_, Sam thinks. The women are each wearing different colors, he notes, white, blue, and a dark red the color of blood, like scarlet; the man wears a darker shade of green, outfit complete with suit and tie. As he sips a glass of what looks like scotch, he gives off a businesslike air, stance and smile confident. He looks at Sam and Dean, who have somehow assumed the identities of Plum and Mustard, with smiling eyes.

Dean is too busy noticing the women to care about green man. The one wrapped in scarlet is eyeing him up and down, coaxing him to join her across the room without saying a word. He spares a glance for a jealous-looking woman in white and one in deep blue who looks a bit wrinkly. But the scarlet one is all he cares about. Dean winks at her and takes a step forward.

Sam holds him back. "Dean," he whispers, still watching the other guests. "Where the hell are we?"

The colors, the figures, the mansion. . . . And Dean suddenly thinks he knows. "Ah, crap."

"What?"

But before he can answer, the doors leading from the hall and to the rest of the place burst open. "He's gone!" a female servant shouts.

"Who's gone?" Sam, aka Victor, asks.

"The millionaire! The owner of the mansion! Gone! Vanished into thin air!" she insists.

"Yep," Dean says, nodding, witnessing the rest of the guests surround the servant, asking her questions about the owner's disappearance. "I know _exactly_ where we are."

Sam meets his brother's knowing gaze, waiting impatiently for the answer.

"It might sound crazy, but . . . do you remember that board game, _Clue_? Yeah, well, we're in it."

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	2. Observatory

**A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed and put this on story alert. **

**Disclaimer: Supernatural and Clue aren't mine.**

**Chapter 2: Observatory**

"You're kidding, right?"

In response, Dean shoves his hands into his yellow pants pockets. "If I'm yanking your chain, Sam, then how do you explain the mansion and the friggin' rainbow upchuck and . . . _them_?" He nods in the guests' direction.

"I don't know, Dean. . . . Maybe we're dreaming?" Sam asks, trying to make sense of it all.

"You call getting sucked into a board game a _dream_? My ass! It doesn't make sense. Look, one minute, we're at the motel, and then at some rich bastard's mansion in the middle of nowhere? Dude, _what the hell_?"

"Dean," Sam warns, noticing the stares they are receiving, "keep your voice down."

The older of the two meets the scrutinizing gaze of Mr. Green, an overly confident African American man, which makes Dean feel like he's being x-rayed. The corner of Green's mouth twitches, as if he's fighting a smile, then he takes an orange lollipop from his pocket, pops it in his mouth, and turns back to the servant. She's sobbing hysterically, convinced she saw some sort of shadow in the kitchen while preparing the meal they'd been scheduled to have.

"All right, fine," says Dean on a sigh. "What do we do?"

Sam chews on that. "You said this is _Clue_, right? I'm Plum, and you're Mustard. So . . . maybe we have to find out who the murderer is to get out of here."

"And where is 'here', Einstein?" Dean inquires.

The youngest clears his throat. "I'm still working on that part."

Sam walks over to the other guests, his detective face on, ready to get some answers. And maybe he'll use some sap story to attain those answers, claiming to understand what the servant's going through.

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Figures," he says to himself, falling into step after his brother.

* * *

><p>According to the female servant, the last time she saw the owner was in the observatory earlier in the evening, studying the stars with his newly bought high-powered telescope; she'd passed the room on her way to the kitchen. When dinner was nearly ready, she returned to the observatory to inform the wealthy owner and to announce a few guests had already arrived. She found the room empty, the telescope on its side. Broken.<p>

"Maybe it was her," Dean suggested, shrugging as he and Sam left the kitchen after a quick stop at the fridge for food and refreshment. "We don't know. She could be some psycho chick."

"Who works as a servant for a millionaire?" Sam scoffs. "Come on, Dean. From the way she talked, she seemed to really like the guy."

"Okay, so maybe she's a psycho chick who has a crush on her boss. But she has motive to kill him. He's rich. And he's probably famous for something, right? So she gets rid of him and makes a beeline for the cash. Makes perfect sense to—"

A flash of red interrupts Dean's theory, whose hands automatically shoot out to catch the scarlet bundle and prevent it from hitting the floor. Sam recoils in surprise, having not been paying attention.

Only when he sees her lips—which he can't help noticing are coated in shiny crimson lipstick—slightly parted in a silent "O" of surprise, does he recognize her. Dean smiles handsomely down at the damsel, his wit and irresistible charm surfacing without effort. "Well, hello there," he says. "And just who might you be?"

As he helps her stand, Scarlet frowns. "What? You don't know who I am?" she asks quietly, voice full of disappointment.

Dean swallows and shifts his weight a little uncomfortably at the rancorous look in her chocolate brown eyes. But it's gone as soon as it appears, and he blinks a few times, thinking maybe it was merely a trick of the light. "Uh, yeah. Of course," he says, exchanging an uneasy glance with Sam. Dean clears his throat. "You're Kasandra Scarlet. Big movie star, Hollywood's most famous actress. I've seen your picture . . . well, just about everywhere." He flashes a heartbreaking smile and nervously rants on about his years as a celebrity football player, and how he's become a sports announcer. Practically bragging—just a little—by the end.

"I see," Scarlet says, locking eyes with him. "Seems like you were quite the player back then."

Dean shrugs, being modest. "I don't know about that. Maybe."

Sam shuffles his feet and starts whistling—a reminder to his brother that he still exists, that they've got work to do.

"Right, well, nice talking to you, Kasandra." Dean takes her hand and kisses it briefly.

Scarlet nods once. "And to you, Mr.—?"

"De—" Once he realizes he's about to reveal his true identity, he manages to pass the mistake off as a cough. "I'm sorry," Dean apologizes. "Jack. Jack Mustard."

"Nice meeting you, Jack." And she walks back the way Sam and Dean had come, back towards the kitchen. Dean watches her hips sway back and forth as the echoing sound of her heels reach his eardrums, aware she's showing off just for him.

Just a little.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam asks, waving a hand in front of his older brother's face. "Anyone home?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Sorry," he says absently, finally turning back to face Sam. "Where were we going?"

"The observatory," Sam reminded him. "To see if there's any clues. You know, missing millionaire, broken telescope. . . . Any of that ring a bell?"

"Um, right." Dean shakes his head back and forth and continues on down the hall. "Man, I bet Mystery Inc. wouldn't even know what the hell is going on here."

* * *

><p>Along with the broken telescope, the Winchesters find papers scattered across the long mahogany desk, several stacks and shelves of books, and even a 3D model of the solar system.<p>

Dean gives a frustrated sigh. "Nothing here," he says, pushing the last drawer of the desk closed. "Just geeky stuff. Hey, isn't that your area of expertise?"

The dirty look Sam throws him brings a smile to Dean's face. Chuckling to himself, Dean resumes his search along the large bookshelf, pulling prehistoric volumes out at random.

Sam sits down in the black computer chair and attempts to log onto the device. As he waits for the screen to come to life, he asks, "Hey, Dean? How'd you know all that back there? About you and Scarlet, I mean."

Dean takes his time answering, pretending to flip pages and look serious, as if he's actually reading the crap. "Oh, well, I dunno. It was weird, though. Like I just knew it without really knowing it, you know?"

Sam nods, not really understanding, and turns back to the computer. A box appears on the screen, requiring a password for access. Feeling confident, he starts typing.

The last copy Dean spies is very dusty. Wiping it away, his eyes lock on the title. "Sam," he says in a tone that reveals he's found something. "Check this out." Dean holds up the book for his brother to see.

Sam's eyes widen in surprise. "Where'd you find that?"

Dean gestures to the bookshelf.

Sam's eyebrows knit together. "Why would a millionaire have a copy of _Call of Cthulhu _by H. P. Lovecraft?"

Dean shrugs. "Beats me. Maybe he got it when he was a kid."

"Maybe." Sam returns to the computer. Having a gut feeling, he presses several keys on the keyboard, and suddenly the desktop is at his disposal. He smiles.

"What are you smirking about?" Dean questions as he moves toward the back corner of the room, scanning the floor.

"Just give me a minute."

Dean steps around the broken telescope, pieces of glass littering a small section of the floor. In the process, a few floorboards squeak loudly under his weight. Lowering to a crouch, Dean discovers the outline of a small square, cleverly hidden by the light blue carpet covering the entire floor. He reaches toward it as Sam joins him.

"Got around the password, but I didn't find anything out of the ordinary. Normal files and documents." Sam sees Dean squinting at the ground. "What're you doing?"

"I think . . ." Dean trails off as he reaches to pull at the patch. With little effort, it yields to him. He lifts the wooden floor the rest of the way to reveal a set of steps that lead downward to a dark passage. He exchanges a triumphant glance with Sam.

"Bingo."


	3. Blood Trail

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! More are definitely welcome! :)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own SPN or Clue.**

**Chapter 3: Blood Trail**

"Where do you think it leads?"

Dean stares into the impenetrable darkness, wondering the same thing himself. "No clue," he says. "But we're gonna have to find out. Hand me that flashlight over there on the desk."

Sam does, but even with a source of light to lead the way, the passage doesn't look all that inviting. Anything could be down there.

" 'kay then," Dean says, casually depositing the flashlight in his brother's hand. "You go first."

Sam scowls, but obeys, smiling as he takes the wooden stairs downward. _Who's scared of the dark now, Dean?_ he wonders silently, remembering all the times his sibling had made fun of him for being afraid as a kid.

Dean follows behind, carefully placing his feet before taking another step.

There's a loud snap, followed shortly by a crash. The light vanishes.

"Sam?" Dean calls tentatively. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam replies. "Step broke, flashlight quit working. That's all."

"What step? Which one?"

There's a pause in which Sam jiggles the flashlight. "Third from the bottom, I think."

"Gee, Sam, that really helps." Dean rolls his eyes. He's glad Sam can't see him. "Hey, you down there already?"

"Yeah, come on. Hurry up, Dean."

"All right, all right! I'm coming, Samantha."

Dean can almost feel that familiar heated glare directed right at him.

Light once again returns after several bangs against the wall. Sam holds the flashlight at eye level, illuminating as much of the passage as he can.

The walls and floor are made of gray stone. An unnatural chill sweeps through the space almost constantly, accompanying the creepy feeling that everything is closing in around you. Dean instinctively reaches into his pocket to retrieve a gun, only to feel the soft fabric of his yellow suit. Oh, right. He's not a hunter. _I'm monkey food._

About five minutes later, Dean steps in something that makes a disgusting _splat_ noise. When he attempts to lift his foot, a sickening squelching sound fills their ears, and Sam turns to his brother.

"What the—?"

"What is it?" Sam asks.

"How the hell should I know? You got the flashlight, genius."

Sam focuses the beam of light downwards . . . and drops the flashlight in shock.

* * *

><p>"Dammit, Sam!" Dean curses.<p>

"Shut up" is all Sam can say as he crouches to find the flashlight. As his hands curl around it, he can feel the empty compartment, the springs that had kept the tool's source of power in place. "The batteries fell out."

Dean throws his hands up. "Great, just great."

"Can you quit complaining and help me out here?" Sam growls, irritated and scared out of his mind.

"Whatever." Dean's hand closes over something solid. "Here, I think I found one."

It takes a minute to find Sam's hand in pitch black darkness. Sam squeezes the object, then frowns.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam holds up his hand, even though Dean can't see it. "This isn't a battery."

"Then what—?"

"It's a rock." Sam sighs. "Dean, would you please quit fooling around? This is serious!"

Dean puts up his hands—showing Sam he'll back off, though he can't see it. "Okay, sorry. Just trying to help."

They find the batteries and restore light to the passage. Sam once again lowers the flashlight, revealing the substance on the floor.

"Whoa, is that . . . _blood_?" Dean asks, crouching to get a better look.

"Yeah, sure looks like it."

The pool of blood continues all the way to the second set of stairs they come to, which look a bit more sturdy. Sam shines the light on them, and a glint of light reflects back to them from some sparkling material, which Dean moves toward.

Sam opens his mouth to warn Dean not to touch it, but the older sibling puts a finger to his lips, suddenly hearing muffled voices floating down to them from above.

"I told you," a woman was saying. "I'm tired of being overlooked and not getting my fair share. It's time you did some of the work for once."

"In case you haven't noticed," another female voice replies, "after all this, the only way it'll get done right is to do it myself. The only thing you've managed to prove to me is how stupid and childish you really are."

"We agreed on a price, Eleanor," comes the angered whisper.

"Now, now. No need to worry, my dear Diane. I will see to it that the money comes through for us."

"It doesn't matter," Diane says. "With or without it, my day will come, one way or the other."

And with that, a pair of footsteps crosses the floor and exits the room, shortly followed by a second.

Dean climbs around the bloody knife on the steps, then inches open the loose piece of floor.

"Dean!" Sam whispers. "What're you—?"

"Shhh!"

Sam waits while Dean scans the scene, but not for long. "What do you see?"

"Did you know this leads back to the kitchen? Convenient, right?" Dean asks, smiling.

"Are they gone?"

Dean shrugs. "Guess so."

They climb out of the dark tunnel and into the kitchen, lowering the square door quietly. Dean is amazed by how it completely disappears from view. Perfect camouflage.

"Did you recognize the voices?" Dean helps himself to food and drink in the fridge.

Sam thinks hard. "One, I think. Peacock."

"And the other?" Dean asks through a mouthful of cherry pie.

"Well, we know it wasn't Scarlet . . . so it has to be White."

Dean chews and thinks. "White and Peacock? Working together? Really?"

"What else could they have been talking about, Dean? White brought up the cash. Peacock told her how childish she was, how only she could get the job done. Sounds like a pretty open and shut case to me."

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, but . . ."

"What?"

"It's just, well . . ." Dean shrugs. "It's never that easy. And we don't even know why we're here to begin with. I mean, who did this to us? Who thought it would be funny to chuck us here, have us become two of the characters, like pieces in the game? Not that I'm complaining, or anything. Sure, Scarlet's great and all, but I don't—"

Sam waves his hand, cutting Dean off. "I think I know who we're dealing with."

Before Dean ask who or what is responsible, a gusty wind passes through the room, knocking a few papers on the counter to the floor. He holds the pie protectively.

But the tan trenchcoat and piercing blue eyes can only belong to one angel they know.

"Cas?"


End file.
